


Beyond the Shadows

by drifting_manatee



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Demons, Gen, Ghosts, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mystery, Other, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-10-25 03:24:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10755729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drifting_manatee/pseuds/drifting_manatee
Summary: Almost a decade after a mysterious incident devastated his hometown and his livelihood, Armin Arlert is more or less adjusting to independent living as a college student. He hasn't heard from his childhood friends in months, but his part time job at a local bookstore is worth the effort if only to catch a glimpse of the gloomy but enigmatic blonde girl who frequents the shop during his shifts.But something is brewing in the shadows, an ominous and malevolent force that Armin can't hope to comprehend but is seemingly linked to by some cruel twist of fate. Aided by a secretive organisation that has been protecting mankind from paranormal threats for centuries, Armin must confront both the impending evil building against him and the mysteries of his past before they swallow him whole.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Well... so.... I haven't published anything here since 2014. Not what I was aiming for, honestly. 
> 
> Buuuuut I'm back now and- fingers crossed- here to stay. Also, I'm being hugely optimistic by starting a new multi chapter fic in a different fandom as well- and hopefully, I'm a better writer than I was 3 years ago. 
> 
> I'm aiming to update this fic as least once a week, but whether or not that goal will come to pass is entirely dependent on my university work and my own (possibly lacking) productivity. But it is my sincere aim to have this fic finished in full at some point in the not-so-distant future, so please bear with me if you enjoy it.
> 
> So, without further ado... enjoy! :)

The monotonous melody of the tapping at his keyboard was interrupted by a distinctive knock at the door. 

His fingers froze in place, digits hovering over vowels and consonants that would knit his thoughts together onto the screen in front of him. Glancing out the window, he noted that the previously opaque blackness of night was now bleeding whispers of crimson and orange, dancing and taunting his itching eyes. 

Vaguely, he registered that the irritation in his eyes was probably down to a profound lack of sleep. He allowed himself to blink. 

His vision flitted to the time. 3.32am. So the hours had slipped by him once more, as they tended to recently. It was becoming a worrisomely common occurrence, especially for one with his responsibilities. Most likely would be wise to call the session to a halt soon. 

He had saved his document and halfway-shut the lid of his laptop when the door swung open. Familiar footsteps trod across the threshold, becoming silent once they were swallowed by the fringes of the musty rug at the room’s centre. He calmly pushed his computer to the back of his desk, before swivelling his chair round to face the source of the early morning intrusion.

A momentary silent gaze was exchanged. Calculating blue ensnared by piercing grey. 

“Didn’t take you for the sort to go on the hunt for a late night snack,” Erwin Smith remarked tonelessly, pressing his taut back into his chair. His jibe was met with a resolute silence from the man standing in front of him, whose eyes narrowed in something like irritation. 

“Yeah, well,” Levi rumbled, folding his arms across his chest and reconfiguring his scowl to the window behind Erwin’s shoulder, “Let’s just say I’ve been having trouble sleeping.” 

One nanosecond of a glance at the man’s demeanour would be enough the verify this as the truth. His eyes, normally ringed with shadows enough as it was, were now weary with a different kind of weight. His hair, usually groomed into compliance within an inch of its life, now framed his head in unruly tufts- a signpost that he had surely been tossing and turning. And, Erwin realised almost in surprise, he hadn't even attempted to change into something more presentable, clad in a long-sleeved grey nightshirt and crumpled sweatpants, his bare feet sinking into the fibres of the rug. 

All of these observations allowed Erwin to deduce that the man must have come straight to his office immediately after he was roused. Meaning, whatever had woken him up must have been of vital importance. 

“What did you see?” Erwin queried gingerly. Levi continued his staring contest with the waking sky, his expression unchanged.

“It started off the same as last time, and the time before that,” he muttered, “Same walls. Same voices. Same faces.” He winced slightly. “That same powerful, desperate urge for bloodshed. That sure as hell hasn’t changed.” He paused to swallow, his face perhaps washing over with tinges of uneasiness. “Only… this time, something was… different.” 

“Oh?” Erwin’s curiosity perked up at this new development. Levi’s eyes locked with his for the first time since he entered the room, and Erwin noticed his unusual pallor for the first time. He was white as a sheet.

“There was this light. Nothing like I’ve ever seen before,” he murmured, his expression becoming distant. “It was so intense, so blinding, that I felt like it was searing straight through my mind. While it was there, I couldn’t even hope to see anything else.” He took that moment to pause, uncrossing his arms and standing with them rigidly by his sides. “And yet…” He licked his lips. “There was something almost… reassuring about it at the same time. Like that initial pain was only a momentary sensation that would give way to something… safe.” A laugh escaped his throat, low and mirthless, “I don’t think I could ever adequately describe it even if I tried. But all I can say for certain is that, whatever it was, it’s nothing I’ve ever experienced before.”

The two men allowed a silence to fill the air between them as these words were absorbed and considered. Erwin began to suspect that Levi’s experience had left him more shaken than the man would ever be willing to admit. 

“And was he there again?” Erwin asked finally. Levi’s hands clenched into tight fists, nails digging into the beds of his palms. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “The same as before.” Erwin nodded grimly, lacing his fingers together in his lap. 

“So it would be wise to suspect that he must be of some importance, then,” he sighed. Levi eyed him warily. 

“Something’s coming, Erwin,” he said slowly, something incomprehensible stirring in his gaze, “I felt it. I’ve been feeling it for a while now. And I know it’s not just me- I think you have been too.” He crossed his arms once more, chin jutting in the air slightly. Erwin smiled wanly.

“Last time I checked, I hadn’t been burdened with your gift of foresight.” 

“Don’t play coy. I know you don’t have to be like me to feel it.” He glared accusingly at Erwin’s face. “You’re creepily intuitive like that. It’s like it’s in your bones or something, and it’s fucking weird.” Erwin offered a grimly knowing chuckle by way of answer. 

“I can’t argue with you on that one, my friend,” he exhaled. “These recurring dreams of yours… I’m a smart enough man to know not to dismiss them.” He tilted his head slightly, fixing his stare on a crack in the ceiling. “That leaves the question of who- or what- is out there, and what exactly it is they want to do.” He rubbed his weary eyes fiercely. “As much as I loathe to be a pessimist, I think it’s safe to assume that these intentions may not be to ensure mankind’s continued survival.” 

A heavy pause settled between the two, weighed down by the unspoken grievances the pair most certainly had towards the sense of foreboding that coloured their every move. 

Levi’s folded arms tightened across his chest. 

“So what do we do?” he asked plainly, his blank expression betraying no hint of fear. Or anything, for that matter.

It took Erwin a second to determine the course of action that throbbed at the forefront of his mind. 

“The boy. We bring him in.”


	2. Reading is Fundamental

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember when I said I was going to update this once a week? But then uni and life happened and I kind of lost the will to live for a while?
> 
> Well, I'm back now, and I'm desperately holding onto the hope that updates to this will become far more of a, y'know, regular thing. I'm not making any promises, but I'm really excited to write this thing so I hope the next update will be a lot sooner. 
> 
> So feast your eyes, my lovelies, and enjoy!

_hunger_

_a hunger so profound and savage and all encompassing it tears through his mind it is ruthless and unforgiving and desperate for_

_for_

_for what_

_for who_

_for him?_

_he falls to his knees and claws at his ears but the sound is too much it’s corroding into his eardrums and ripping his soul apart the agony is indescribable it’s too much it’s too much it’s too much_

_a muffled wail someone is crying but who can even find the strength to cry when there is this much pain tearing every sensation he can comprehend to shreds_

_he can barely see can barely think can barely feel_

_why why why why why_

_why why why why_

_why_

_wait_

_a light flares in the corner of his vision burns so hot and so bright he can almost taste it singing the blood on his face_

_its touch lingers_

_he is not alone_

_warms his skin_

_he is not alone_

_soothes his agony_

_he is not alone_

_takes him by the hand_

_safe?_

_the hand_

_alive?_

_takes him to_

_to_

_t o_

Eyes open.

A tendril of sunlight peeked through his curtains and illuminated spritzes of particles in the air, signalling that it was early morning. The last vestiges of sleep clouded his senses, taking with them the remnants of his dream as they receded.

Armin realised perhaps a little late that he was crying. Not much, but enough. A single tear slipped from the inner corner of his eye and crept across his cheekbone onto his pillow. An unusual feeling churned in his gut. Something like emptiness- no, more like loss- twisted in some cavernous space in the pit of his insides.

Waking up to this sensation wasn't really uncommon anymore. His nightmares had certainly worsened in recent times, something Armin had attributed to the very new and very real forms of stress he was being exposed to now.

Sometimes he remembered the dreams, sometimes he didn’t. More often than not, he was only left with fragmented recollections. That feeling- that emptiness- would always be there, however, and it would continue to hound him for the rest of the morning after he woke up.

He blinked hard against the morning light. Strange feelings or not, he had a busy day ahead of him. He didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on some silly little nightmare when he had a torturous shift ahead of him at work to complete on what was likely not enough sleep, and that new course reading list he’d been emailed wasn’t going to pay for itself. He clawed his phone from his bedside table and squinted at the screen for the time.

And nearly had a heart attack.

8.37am.

His shift at work began in 23 minutes.

Oh.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_.

Armin practically tumbled out of bed and staggered straight to his clothes drawer, wheezing curses at whichever deities liked to torment him nowadays. He flung on his work pants and haphazardly buttoned a smart-ish black shirt that he’d worn last weekend and found lying forgotten under his desk. To be honest, his whole room was akin to a pigsty and had been that way for a while, but who could blame him when exams and essay deadlines had been keeping him up and panicking for at least a month now? He’d only submitted his last paper of the year at 3am that morning- not that he was getting any time to relax and recover, mind. Not when he had this month’s rent to cover and only one way of getting that money.

He clamoured for his phone again. 8.41am. Right. If he left in the next four minutes and pedalled his crappy ass bike with all of his inconsiderable strength, he might just make it in time. Breakfast was definitely out of the question, but he managed without it often enough as it was so it wasn’t too serious a sacrifice to make.

Armin used up 2 minutes attacking his poor mouth with a toothbrush- the last thing he wanted was to be fired for reeking halitosis- before attempting to pull on his shoes whilst shrugging on a jacket. Needless to say, Armin wasn’t much of a multi-tasker. And perhaps it was inevitable- no, destiny- that he fell right on his ass with a resounding thud.  
He was still rubbing his aching tailbone and cursing under his breath as he emerged from his bedroom, backpack slung awkwardly over his shoulder, and immediately collided with another solid surface.

“Oh Jesus fuck-“ a crash of porcelain decorated the tiles below them with scatters of shards and leftover fried rice. Armin lifted his eyes and Jean glared right back at him, bending over with a wince to salvage the cadavers of his pitiful breakfast.

“Sorry,” Armin mumbled, eyeing the door nervously but glued to the spot by a pang of guilt. Jean raised an eyebrow at him, scooping congealed rice and china into his palms.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” His Canadian drawl was weighed down by the sort of guttural hoarseness that only a hangover could induce. Jean had had a reportedly agonising shift at the Chinese restaurant the previous night (one customer had asked him if the duck special contained meat), and so insisted upon treating himself to a bottle of Jack Daniels as recompense. Which, true to form, he downed over the course of the night and promptly passed out face-down on the musty couch provided by their landlord. And now, his twisted idea of ‘therapy’ was clearly taking its toll, as he looked about ready to upturn his stomach onto the mosaic of broken china and Singaporean fried rice at their feet.

Armin could never call himself a saint, but at least he could take comfort in the fact that he would always, always have his shit together better than Jean Kirschtein after a post-work bender.

“Shouldn’t you still be comatose?” Armin retorted, feeling little shame when Jean scowled at him blearily.

“Ha-fucking-ha,” Jean deadpanned, “Absolute zinger. I’d laugh even more if I didn't feel like total fucking rancid trash, Goldilocks.” Armin grimaced at the nickname, something Jean had stuck him with since the earliest stages of their friendship.

“Overslept,” Armin muttered shortly, tugging the strap of his backpack closer so that it bit grooves into his shoulder. Jean stared at him, and Armin diverted his gaze to the nicotine patch on the crook of his friend’s arm. Maybe this would be the time that he would actually follow through on his declarations of abstinence, rather than be caught three days later sullenly puffing on his precious cigarettes as he carried out garbage duty.

“Dude, are you sure? ‘Cause you look like you’re chronically allergic to sleep or something.” Armin brushed off this most likely very apt observation with a vague shrug and started for the door.

“Gotta run!” he called, snatching his keys from where he’d dumped them on the counter, “I’ll buy you more takeout later, okay?” He didn’t wait long enough to hear if Jean snarked something in return as he promptly slammed the door shut behind him, dashing down the staircase and thanking his lucky stars that he only lived on the first floor- within easy sprinting distance of his bike.

Jean might not be the most gainly of individuals (not that he could talk), but he had been a solid friend to Armin for almost two years now and was fairly simple to live with. Sure, he might leave dirty socks on the couch and him making drunken 2am food experiments wasn’t exactly an unusual occurrence, but he was dependable and nice company. Their other two flatmates, Mina and Thomas, were less tolerant of Jean’s character flaws than Armin was (which probably explained their frequent absences…) but he didn’t particularly mind. He had never been much of a social butterfly, so he was grateful so have made at least one good friend since beginning the unfathomable and alien experience that was college.

Granted, Jean didn’t actually go to Trost University. Or any school for that matter. They’d crossed paths at Armin’s first college party, where he was so overwrought with nerves that he drank cup after cup of what had been promised to be a non-alcoholic punch. Only it was a college party, so of course some tool had spiked it. And, obviously, Armin had the tolerance of Hello Kitty on catnip, so any fool could deduce how well that his night turned out. Luckily, Jean had been bored shitless that night and had snuck into this party just for a laugh when he’d spotted this 5ft 6 blonde shrimp falling face-first off the back of a sofa. And so, Armin’s first encounter with his future friend was when the stranger hauled him to a bathroom and awkwardly patted his back as he acquainted the contents of his stomach with the inside of a toilet bowl.

Armin hadn’t gone to many college parties after that, but Jean remained a constant for some reason, and so the pair had begun to hang out. Then Armin needed to find a place to live at the end of his first year and Jean just generally needed to get his shit together, so they ended up shacking up together along with a couple of vague acquaintances from Trost University that Armin knew via Facebook. It was funny how things worked out sometimes- that, maybe, that person you puke on at a stranger’s party would go on to become the closest thing you have to a friend in this big wide world.

Well, Armin reminded himself with as he panted and pumped his bony little legs on his bicycle pedals, Jean wasn’t technically his only friend. Certainly the only person he could call a friend in all of Trost if he discounted his boss, Hannes, who would make him a cup of instant coffee every now and then, or his college professors. They seemed to tolerate him well enough.

Jesus… he really needed to get out more.

But lifelong timidness aside, Armin had always felt ease in the knowledge that if he never quite grew the balls to engage in regular, proper social interaction with another fucking human being, at least he could count on Eren and Mikasa being there for him. As much as he longed to blot out Shiganshina and the stain it left on his psyche, he wouldn’t trade his childhood friends for the world.

  
When he was having one of his Big Bad Days- those sorts of days were the glass isn’t just half empty, but it’s also half full of sulphuric acid, and it eats into your brain and smelts any flickers of positivity that cling to life- the best method of anchoring himself to optimism was by forcing images of them into his mind. The funny way Eren’s nose would crinkle when he was sulking, the muted but still there glimmer of contentment in Mikasa’s eye when Armin offered her a daisy on a midsummer’s day. The way Eren would lose his temper at any unfortunate soul that dared spurn Armin’s feelings, the crimson of Mikasa’s funny old scarf and the way she was always having to re-knot it when it loosened. The security he felt in being able to fall in front of them but knowing they wouldn’t think less of him for it.

If he thought of _them_ , then he could fool himself into thinking that it was okay, that he was okay, that nothing had ever changed and he could go back to his grandfather’s cosy little house in Shiganshina and, for the first time in years, feel truly safe. But, inevitably, thinking of his childhood home for too long would resurface the stench of smouldering wood as it assaulted his nostrils, the searing flavour of smoke as it choked him from the inside out, the wind battering his tiny face as his grandfather carried him through street after street that was lit up with the terrifying lustre of the inferno.

Armin didn’t believe in the devil, but he would still swear he had witnessed Hell on that night nine years ago.  
When Shiganshina all but burnt to the ground, so did his innocence and concept of safety. What was truly chilling was how sudden it all had been- how he’d gone to bed, eagerly anticipating the bike riding lesson he’d been promised for the next day, and had instead woken up in his grandfather’s shaking arms as the timbers of their house blazed and crumbled above them. Suddenly, Armin and his grandfather were left stranded- no home, no belongings, and not a clue of what in the hell they were going to do. They practically fled the cinders of what once had been their home, shacking up in a town called Maria in the boondocks of Illinois, then Sina barely a year later. Now, Armin was striking it out on his own in Trost when he was still smarting from the fire that he’d barely escaped from unscathed as a ten year old boy. He shouldn’t be considered an ‘adult’ by any stretch of the imagination.

At least he wasn’t as unfortunate as Eren and Mikasa. The Jaegers hadn’t been so lucky- both were presumed dead in the aftermath of what was now referred to as the ‘Shiganshina Incident’. Their bodies were never recovered, but they never materialised from the charred foundations of their house so the kids were packed up and shipped to the foster system.  
Before he’d fled the ashes of Shiganshina, Armin had vowed to Eren and Mikasa that he’d never drop contact with them. He’d pinky-sworn and everything, and everyone knows that a pinky-swear from a ten year old is as serious an oath as the pledge of allegiance. And he’d kept his promise- he scribbled weekly letters to be mailed to their new address, which was now a foster home an hour or so from Shiganshina. They responded in kind for the first few years, keeping Armin up to date on how many meltdowns Eren had had that week (always more than was healthy) and how many thugs he’d pissed off and Mikasa had been forced to save him from. The advent of Skype made communication even easier, and Armin was still able to cling onto some warm semblance of nostalgia that hadn’t been burnt beyond recognition.

But after they had all turned fifteen, the messages dwindled. The Skype calls became less frequent. He was woken up at 5am on a school morning by a text from Eren that hastily summarised how they’d been accepted into some special program at an institute near Trost and were moving there effective immediately.

Armin congratulated him and asked for their new address. Neither Eren nor Mikasa ever gave it to him.

That’s not to say they ever stopped outright contacting him. He would receive harmless little texts from Eren every so often, and Mikasa messaged him for Netflix recommendations on an average of once a fortnight. They both sent him cards on his birthday this year. They were still friends- but they hadn't Skyped for almost a year, and whenever Armin’s suggestions for a group rendezvous were nearly always met with barely-passable excuses of _work this_ and _prior plans_ that and _you know how these things are, right Armin?_ So he bit his tongue and let them go about their business, too much of a coward to outright demand their attention even though he craved it so badly.

 _I wonder_ , Armin thought dully to himself as he turned a sharp corner onto the street that housed Hannes’ and Sons Bookshop, practically skidding sideways with the velocity he was hitting, _If they find me boring now. I’m just another disillusioned and perpetually frustrated college student whose problems they can’t identify with. I’d get bored of me, too._

Hastily tying his pummelled bike to a lamppost, Armin saw bitter irony in the fact that his musings had now left him desperate to begin his shift at work. At least it would make him think of something other than the probable explanation behind his friends’ loss of interest in him. He knew he could handle selling books to strangers all day, even if he didn’t have the guts to initiate mending a friendship that had gone stale.

“One minute,” came Mr Hanne’s weary drone from behind a newspaper as Armin barged into the shop, wheezing like a phlegmatic steam train. He glanced at his phone. 8.59. Considering he’d only been conscious for just under half an hour, Armin thought he deserved to pat himself on the back once he’d caught his breath.

“Has the new stock arrived?” he asked, praying that Mr Hannes would overlook his very, very close call without too much of a fuss.

  
“Twenty _Great Gatsbys_ , thirty _Catcher in the Ryes_ , fifty of each Harry Potter,” Hannes whittled off, “Can always count on Madam Rowling to keep this dump afloat, if nothing else.” He indicated to the wood-panelled door squished into the crevice beside the ‘Sports and Interest’ section with his mug. “They’re in the back, if you can sort them.”

  
So off Armin scurried to the poky and musty-scented office that Mr Hannes dumped all his new orders in, blearily slapping sticker after sticker on book after book, handling elaborate and gaudy hardcovers that probably cost the equivalent of a week’s worth of food for him. It wasn’t stimulating by any means, but it wasn’t too difficult for a sleep-deprived waif like him to tackle. Besides, it would contribute to keeping a roof above his head, as the monthly allowance his grandfather insisted on giving him could only do so much. And, if anything, it gave him a legitimate reason to snub all the anxieties that almost constantly stewed within him.

  
Sorry, impending existential crisis, no time for you- there are Nicholas Sparks paperbacks that need alphabetising.

By the time Armin emerged from the gulf of the back room, Mr Hannes had gone from reading his newspaper at the cashier with a blank expression to sitting newspaper-less at the cashier with a blank expression that betrayed hints of self-loathing. At least Jean wasn’t the only one suffering with a hangover at 9am on a Tuesday.

Armin offered to take up his post at the cashier, which Mr Hannes immediately accepted and promptly retreated into the bowels of the back room. And, judging by the hip flask he clutched onto like a lifeline, Armin surmised that he wouldn’t be resurfacing any time soon. God speed.

Customers, as always at this time in the week, were sporadic and unmemorable for the most part; one little old lady with a crucifix round her neck bought a special edition hardcover Fifty Shades of Grey with a deceptively sweet smile on her face, and some mouth-breather berated Armin for not ensuring that the shop sold this one specific motorcycle maintenance guidebook that no-one and their aunt gave a flying shit about. _This is paying for the roof above my head,_ he repeated to himself like a manta as he received squawks of ‘customer care’ this and ‘I wanna speak to the manager!’ that.

This shift was threatening to evolve into being as painfully monotonous as the last one, a prospect that Armin was reluctant to come to terms with, until she entered. The obnoxious little bell at the door tinkled, Armin was about to force his ‘keep the customer happy’ smile, and he saw her.

Blonde hair bitten back by the teeth of an azure hair grip, some strands falling loose and stroking the edges of her face. The harsh angles of her cheekbones standing in stark contrast with a placid expression that masked her features. The chill of the icy hue that pooled in her irises, making them appear simultaneously hypnotising and yet strangely daunting.

Their eyes met.

Armin’s chest tightened.

She’d come, she’d come, she’d come.

She broke their eye contact as quickly as it was initiated, ducking her head and purposefully making a beeline for the ‘Fiction A-Z’ section. He vowed not to gawk after her and so busied himself with reading endless spreadsheets on Mr Hannes’ ancient computer, but the numbers were meaningless and before long had liquified into incomprehensible smudges in his field of vision. But he couldn’t stare at her, he couldn’t, even if he _really, really, really wanted to_ whenever she came into the shop, and she came fairly often, at least once a fortnight when he was there anyway, so did that mean something, did she really like this crappy little shop all that much, he supposed it could be considered quite charming to someone willing to overlook all the cracks in the ceiling or the wonky shelves or the general shittiness of the place, but maybe that was the aesthetic she went in for-

“Excuse me.”

Armin was violently jolted out of his reverie, a reflex that he immediately resented when he realised how weird it must have looked to any normal person. He mustered as much false confidence as he could, before turning to the source of the sound.

“Hello, how can I help?” he recited. She wasn’t looking directly at him, but rather at the used coffee mug on the desk in front of him, her fingers twiddling with a blonde tress that curled by her left ear.

“I, uh…” she began, before pressing her lips together and shifting her gaze from the mug to the floor. She paused for a few moments, and then spoke; “I’m looking for a book.”

Had she been any other customer, Armin would’ve smiled genially while keeping his thoughts of _well, why else would you be in a book shop, you ass_ to himself. But she wasn’t any other customer, and her body language was surprising. Normally, her stiff-as-a-board posture and lack of eye contact exuded a cold indifference that Armin could never hope to replicate. Like, she was cool and scary, which somehow seemed completely natural to her.

And yet now, she seemed unsure of herself. Somehow, talking to Armin was thawing a layer of her frosty apathy.  
What the hell was happening?

“W-what kind of book?” he stuttered, cursing himself for his inability to remain calm under pressure. She stiffened even further.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, fingers now twiddling with the fabric of her pearly grey t-shirt, “I suppose… a lot of what I’ve read recently has been quite… well, heavy. As in stories of relentless tragedy with no rhyme or reason to it, and the protagonist can’t overcome it because they’re too miserable themselves and it’s all just a bit….” She tailed off.

“Bleak?” Armin offered.

“Exhausting,” she said. Armin chuckled as he stood, trying his very best to appear as casual as he _most certainly did not feel_.

“So you’re wanting something a bit less demoralising, then?” he asked.

  
“I guess,” she mumbled, “I think… I think there’s enough shit- sorry.”

“No, no- it’s, uh, it’s fine.”

“Oh. Okay. Well- there’s enough shit that we have to face in the world as it is,” she continued, lifting her head to almost meet his gaze, “Everyone’s killing each other, there’s all these warnings about how carbon emissions are going to contaminate the air we breathe, and predictions about how each coming generation is going to suffer more than any other in history. So, with all this going on, I suppose I’m just tired of reading about it all the time in books when I’m trying to escape all that misery.”

There was a heavy pause and she ducked her head again, perhaps assuming she’d said too much.

“It’s a bit incessant sometimes, isn’t it?” he said, to which she nodded gently. He moved out from behind the cashier desk, sweating slightly ( _oh god he hoped he was wearing enough deodorant please let him be wearing enough deodorant_ ) when she looked at him questioningly. “If you, uh, follow me, I think I might be able to help you out…”

She nodded again and followed him, weaving wordlessly between tables crammed with pyramids of Wordsworth and Plath, Poe and Ginsberg, Brontë and Huxley, Shakespeare and Miller, before they reached the section labelled ‘Sci-Fi and Fantasy’. Armin’s fists clenched and he was acutely aware that his ears were burning, thanking his lucky stars that his mop of hair would be long enough to shroud them. _This is my chance, this is my chance, this is my chance-_

He squinted amongst all the Song of Ice and Fires and fat Terry Pratchett paperbacks, his gaze finally settling on what he was searching for. He dug into the bookshelf and produced a black-and-white tome, which he silently handed to the girl behind him. She peered at the title that curled and swirled at the centre of the cover.

“ _The Night Circus_ ,” she read aloud. Definitely unsure.

“I went into it expecting your average trashy fantasy,” Armin explained, “But it’s so much more than that. It’s this strange blend of gothic fantasy with historical fiction and this intricate, metamorphic prose that just completely transports you into the story world. Sure, the characters aren’t the most complex, but I didn’t really care all that much because I was so invested in the world they lived in.” He looked at her and gave what he hoped was an assuring smile. “It’s the ultimate escapism. No climate change or melting icecaps there.”

She stared intently at the book in her hands as if it were speaking to her instead of Armin, her loose strands of hair concealing the steely blue of her eyes again. “I don’t usually go for fantasy.”

“It’s not normally suited to everyone’s tastes,” Armin admitted, “But every aspect of the story is so well-realised and believably explained that you can buy into it. It’s fantastical, but it feels realistic at the same time, you know?”

Seemingly placated by Armin’s spiel, she traced the swooping lines and curves of the title with the pad of her index finger. “I’ll take it.”  
Armin, for the first time that morning, beamed with nothing less than unbridled delight. He led her back to the cashier, where she paid for her new book without another word or attempt at eye contact. It was only as he handed her her plastic bag, and she nodded by way of thanks and turned to leave the shop that it dawned on Armin that he had yet to make any actual real progress with this whole distant-and-hopefully-not-creepy-crush situation other than making a fucking book recommendation.

 _Come on, Armin_ , he repeated to himself, _You can do this. Don’t pussy out for once and just be SMOOTH-_

“MY NAME’S ARMIN!” he blurted at her back, voice cracking painfully from the outset. She halted, not turning around. Oh fuck, oh god, he panicked, She didn’t ask, she doesn’t care, why would I even THINK she’d care, stupid stupid stupid-

“Annie.”

Oh.

“Well, uh, Annie, it’s been, uh… wonderful to meet you,” _oh fuck just stop just stop talking you stupid cretin_ , “Hopefully I’ll see you around… the shop, I mean… soon.”

Slowly, leisurely, Annie (oh my god he finally had a name to go with the face, that enigmatic and utterly mesmerising face, _he couldn’t believe it_ ) turned her head so she just about met his eye.

“Thank you, Armin,” she said with something akin to softness, “It’s been… nice to talk to you.”

 _Here we go_.

“I mean, we could… talk more, if you wanted?”

  
Wait. Since when was he this bold?!

Annie’s look was unreadable. “What would we talk about?”

“Uh…” Now he was stumped. “Books? I mean, not just books, because if books were the only thing I ever talked about I’d say I was a pretty boring person, you know? So… I like lots of things. We could talk about… lots of things.” He was practically vomiting words now, but Annie wasn’t cutting him off so he couldn’t stop. “So, so, so, soooooo,” Now he wanted to mercy kill himself, but there was no excavating himself from this hole he’d dug himself into. “My shift ends at five, so, so, we could…uh, go for…. coffee? And talk about… things?”

 _Wow. Articulate as ever, Casablanca_.

As Armin flushed aggressively and considered all of his options regarding immediate migration to Europe, Annie stood there in stoic silence. _What are you thinking_? he wanted to scream, _Why didn’t you just shoot me down immediately? You can’t honestly be taking this seriously, you’re way too cool and mysterious to consider me as anything more than-_

“I can’t.“

There it was.

“Oh,” Armin said. How strange that was all he could manage to say when all he felt was bitterness and frustration and _stupid, stupid, stupid-_

“I’m sorry.”

 _Oh jeez, now you made her feel sorry for you._ “Oh- no, no, it’s fine.” He plastered a smile on his face. “Don’t worry about it, honestly. Sometimes people just aren’t suited for each other, right?”

Annie opened her mouth as if to counter him, but hesitated. “No… I suppose not.” She lingered where she stood for another few moments, then started for the door again. Armin watched her leave, remorse twisting his insides. She clutched the door handle, and paused. “Maybe… some other time…” She broke off her sentence before she could finish, and departed without another glance.

Exhaling deeply, Armin sank back into Mr Hannes’ moth-eaten office chair. What a god awful mess he’d made of that. An adult of nineteen years of age, still deluding himself into hoping that an unattainable crush that he’d never had a proper conversation with would feel the same way about him. Had he learned nothing? Life had never made things easy for him; rather, it sent him up shit’s creek in a canoe without a paddle and told him to figure it out for himself.

“Shit,” he whispered aloud. He’d probably scared her away from the shop for good, now. Not that he blamed her; if you take yourself out for a bit of retail therapy, you certainly don’t do it expecting to get asked out by short and painfully anxious part-time staff. Jesus. He was a fucking idiot.

“It’s okay,” he reassured himself, biting his lip, “Maybe she really doesn’t mind. Yeah… she probably gets asked out on dates all the time. I wasn’t that weird.” A pause. “I wasn’t. I wasn’t…” He sighed. “Shit, who the hell am I kidding? It was so weird. Nice one, Armin. Real nice work you did there”. He raised an invisible glass in a mournful toast. “Here’s to a life of perpetual solitude, you loser.”

Right. That was his daily humiliation out of the way then. He peeped at his phone for the time. 11.03am.

 _I can survive this until my lunch break_ , he thought, _I can do this_.

He tapped the contacts app on his phone screen and pulled up the only unfortunate fucker that he was certain could relate to his toil on the dating scene.

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
I want to die

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
whats new there man lol

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
1) shut up, 2) you know that girl who comes into work a lot that I was telling you about?

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
the one u said is pretty but could probably skin u alive?

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
I’m sure I didn’t put it quite like THAT, but yes.

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
Thing is

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
oh my fuck

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
no u didnt……..

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
I did. I asked her out

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
…..

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
Aren’t you going to say something?? Tell me I’m a moron???

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
tbh im just shocked ur still alive lol

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
Asshole.

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
i take it it didnt go well

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
Actually I’m taking her out to dinner at a fancy French restaurant at 7

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
woah dude seriously???? are u kidding????

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
Yes of course I’m fucking kidding, I made an ass of myself and she turned me down

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
ah

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
plenty more fish in the sea dude

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
Yeah and I’ll probably scare all of them away too

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
dont be so down on urself

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
and yknow what they say- every cloud has a silver lining

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
u never know maybe this girl had rlly bad dental hygiene or was into scat or some shit

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
ok moving SWIFTLY on from that

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
We spoke a bit. She was actually really nice

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
I recommended a book to her

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
oh wow who said romance was dead??

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
Shut up

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
and she pretty considerate with the whole shooting me down part. Like she seemed genuinely sad about it or something?? Idk

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
that sounds weird

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
Well

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
Maybe it was just my imagination then

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
You at work?

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
yeah

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
What time you gonna be back

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
idk ive had some pretty tough customers today

To: Jean Kirschmyass  
From: Armin Armout  
Ouch. God speed

To: Armin Armout  
From: Jean Kirschmyass  
trust me dude im gonna need THAT lol

The chiming of the doorbell snapped Armin out of his rapid texting, prompting him to sit up in his seat and to stop looking so miserable, dammit. He looked up and opened to greet the new customer, only-

There was no one there. The door was swung wide open, inviting in a mellow breeze that tickled his face, but not a single soul was standing at its threshold.

Huh.

Was it really that windy?

Something strange and uncomfortable began to flare up inside of Armin, niggling at his senses and taking him by surprise. It was one of those feelings that seemed to spring up out of nowhere with no rhyme or reason to it, but it was making its presence known and some primal instinct buried deep within his psyche hissed to him that something was _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

Frowning, he heaved himself to his feet and strolled to the door. He poked his face past the parameters of the threshold, and his skin tightened under the stifling humidity.

No wind at all.

  
So why was the door open?

  
And why did he still have this _god damn feeling_ stabbing its way through his insides?

 _Weird_.

Shrugging to himself, he grasped the door handle to pull the stupid thing closed. He would have to suggest that Mr Hannes get it looked at by a professional, since he imagined it was last serviced when it was installed fifty years ago.

Then, he felt a tug at the back of his shirt.

What Armin heard next couldn’t be described as a voice. No, not in his mind. Calling it a ‘voice’ would infer that it carried with it traces of humanity. Rather, it was a strangled hiss, dripping with a wetness akin to mucus and a perverse glee that tightened Armin’s instincts like an iron vice.

_“HELLO, SKIN AND BONES.”_

Armin became aware of a cinch at the hand clasping the door handle, and before he could even breathe he was being yanked backwards with such force he swore his elbow nearly dislocated. He staggered and toppled onto his side, his right temple cracking on the floorboards. Something cackled in ecstasy and began to claw its way up his shins and it felt like a barbs of wire were tearing through his pants and hooking into his flesh and something was hot and wet and pooling across his skin and _oh god, was he bleeding?!_

Stars danced before his eyes and the colours of the room swirled and merged into a sickening psychedelic painting as his head throbbed with confusion. No, not confusion. _Fear_ swallowed each of his senses like bile, and the strange instinct within him spasmed and shrieked at him to _get out, get out, get out, before you DIE._

This instinct compelled Armin to turn his head to the right and his body obeyed on auto-pilot, rolling him onto his front as an invisible force gauged a golf ball-sized chunk out of the wood where his skull had been half a second ago. His wobbling arms pushed him upright but did nothing to settle his vertigo, and the frantic twisting of his vision threatened to topple him once more. However, something animalistic and desperation told Armin that staying still right now would result in a swiftly proceeding death, so he lurched to his feet and bolted towards the cashier where he knew his phone lay.

A phlegmatic laugh perforated his eardrums and Armin’s consciousness to buckled under sheer terror because this was preposterous and illogical and yet it was really happening. Something was lusting for his blood, took delight in his suffering, and _he didn’t know what._

 _“SKIN AND BONES IS SCARED. SKIN AND BONES IS SO, SO, SCARED.”_ Somehow, Armin sensed that whoever the putrid words belonged to was smiling. He knew, and he wanted to scream, scream, scream. _“SKIN AND BONES’ HEART IS BEATING SO FAST.”_ A throaty squeal of pleasure. _“OH, HOW I CAN’T WAIT TO TASTE IT MYSELF.”_

Terror strangled him, but also caused his vision to settle somewhat, so Armin reached for the nearest book he could find and hurled it at the rough direction that the words had come from. When that smacked on the floor he threw another, and another, now not caring to aim and instead bombarding every available space immediately before him with books, pages crumpling and tearing in a cacophony of frenzy. The laugh only became louder and shriller, as the something took its time to crawl its way towards him. And he still couldn’t see what it was.

Then-

Whack. One of the books clouted some invisible weight in the air and bounced off it, extracting a squawk of pain from somewhere. Then, an image flickered in front of Armin’s eyes like a faulty television screen, an image of withered grey skin hanging loose and flaccid from an emaciated figure no taller than a child. Its snout was squashed flat against its grotesque face, gnarled and blemished with mutilating welts that scored trenches across every visible area of its hide. Inky black filled the entirety of its eyes so that pupil was indistinguishable from iris, and they fixated on Armin with the ravenous desperation of a shark. Then the onyx black narrowed in seething rage, and cragged lips distorted to let a snarl escape.

 _“FILTHY, FILTHY,_ ” the thing, because it most definitely was not human, hissed, ‘ _HOW DARE YOU LAY EYES ON ME. I WILL DIG THEM OUT WITH MY BARE HANDS.”_

The abnormality coiled its sagging body.

And it leapt at him.

Armin was keeled over, clutching at the scabby hands that had clamped around his throat. He landed solidly on his back and the creature came with him, its disfigured face warping with a carnal thirst as it clawed at his exposed neck. Its breath was hot and stinking against his face, and Armin felt tears of desperation spring to his eyes. He scratched and tore at the hands at his neck, eliciting a yelp from the thing when he dug his fingernail into a lesioned crook of skin. But it bared its blackened teeth into a ravenous grin, and the hands tightened further, practically cutting off Armin’s access to oxygen.

 _“I WILL SHOW HIM,_ ” it sang, a globule of saliva dripping onto Armin’s cheek, _“I WILL GAIN HIS RESPECT. I WILL BRING HIM YOUR HEART FOR HIM TO DEVOUR.”_

Armin and tried to roll onto his side, but his head was already swimming and the thing, cackling at his feeble attempts at retaliation, was apparently heavier than it looked. It straddled his torso, toenails scratching grazes into his sides, and leaned even further in as it choked him, its black and void eyes stimulating frantic shrieks from each of his senses. Armin felt his face becoming redder and redder as his lungs begged and convulsed for air, and he scrabbled once more at the claws that were crushing his windpipe. But every movement now felt like wading through thick treacle, and the sirens howling in his head began to become more and more muffled as they were overcome by white noise. The thing made a rasping noise that looked like it might have been a laugh, but Armin could barely hear the thoughts that jumbled his frenzied mind, let alone those coming from the world around him.

Lead swelled in his veins and pooled in his extremities, weighing him down so surely that Armin distantly wondered if he would break through the floorboards. His hand that had been pawing at the grip around his neck became lax, pulled down by some sadistic gravitational force and thudding on the ground somewhere far, far away from him. Each of his limbs might as well have been lumps of jell-o separate from his body and were of about as much use to him now. They sprawled, unyielding and useless, as Armin’s lungs shuddered with starvation and blemishes of darkness hounded his vision.

The ringing in his ears was deafening now, and Armin’s mind dimmed even further. As his eyes rolled into the back of his head, tears stinging the corners as the life was throttled from him, he glimpsed those ebony eyes filling with perverse exultation.

His mouth gaped open and closed feebly as he tried to pluck words from air that would not enter his lungs and his mind could not comprehend.

He closed his eyes.

 _I’m dying_ , he might have thought if he had the strength to do so. He might have experienced anguish, a frenzied urge to fight for his survival, a crushing despair as he realised his life was about to be smothered before it had even really begun. And yet, all his mind could conjure up for him was a distant memory, once long forgotten, that filled the void in his chest with a pleasant warmth.

Eren and Mikasa smiled and reached to pull him off the grass just as something smacked against the creature that had crushed his throat.

Air flooded Armin’s lungs so suddenly that it was agonising, and he gagged and retched and spluttered on it, shapes and colours morphing into phantasmic blurs in his vision. He lay on his side, tasting the cold, sweet air as it seared his throat and seized his nerves with hysteria.

His hearing returned to him in ebbs and flows, and he registered what sounded like the repeated blows of a blunt object against meat. The thwacks were persistent and unrelenting, and Armin’s delirious mind foolishly ached with a vague pity for whatever- or whoever- was on the receiving end of such violence.

 _But_ , something murmured to him, _You were just nearly murdered yourself. So why do you feel pity?_

Truly, he did not know. He was too far gone to understand his own thoughts now.

The weighty blows ceased. The lights of Armin’s world dimmed and blurred, his consciousness receding from him like a tide called back by the moon’s draw. A shape materialised in the corner of his eye, distorted by the onset of Armin’s newfound delirium.

His vision settled for a nanosecond, and a faraway sector of Armin’s brain sparked in recognition.

“Hell of a day, huh?” Jean Kirschtein huffed at him, and Armin found it within himself to wheeze out a croaky laugh. Then his consciousness slipped between his fingers like grains of sand in a gust of wind and he fell back into the twilit embrace of oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta? What is Beta?

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd as all hell is acceptable, right? 
> 
> Strange things are coming. Hold on to your hats.


End file.
